


The Beautiful Young Man and the Broken-Hearted Beast

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Beast!Mute, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Beauty!Diarmuid, Dad!Ciaran, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sleazebag Raymond de Merville
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29095854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: A Beauty and the Beast AU.He neglected his servants, his staff, his castle, his land, and himself—until his body was as overgrown as his forests and he was more snarling, growling beast than man...Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The war became a memory, as did the prince and all the rest. But people knew of the forest, dark and thorny and full of wolves, and of the dangerous monster that lurked in the abandoned ruin of a castle, and they stayed away.Or, at least, most everyone did.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 31
Kudos: 26





	1. Where We Begin

**Author's Note:**

> A tumblr prompt from theheartmaybetheweakestpartofme. :) The request was for a Disney's animation Beauty and the Beast AU. I've made a few elements a bit more Pilgrimage-y, but hopefully everything still works.

This is what happened a long, long time ago.

There was a war. This wasn’t surprising, for as long as there have been people there have been wars. But what _was_ surprising about this war was its sheer size and scope. Nobles of all sorts from all across the land rallied their forces to fight for and against one another, to defend the land that was theirs or attack the land that wasn’t. And it was a violent, bloody, ugly thing, as wars always are and always will be.

Among these fighters was a prince who arrived at his first battle fresh-faced and buoyed by stories of courage and glory and chivalry and who left his last battle with scars and aching limbs and sword rusted with dried blood.

He returned to his home quite changed indeed. Angry at himself and the world, despairing at what he had done and what he had seen, alternatively silent and listless and furious and raging—not at all unusual behavior from soldiers who have returned from war. There have been countless families who have welcomed home their loved ones from years of battle and found them irrevocably changed by their experiences. But with patience, much affection, and gentle care the bad moods abate, the nightmares become scarce, the soul mends bit by bit.

Perhaps this was the problem: the prince had no one, or felt he had no one, and shared naught a trouble or nary a thought with anyone else. And his thoughts were mired in darkness, bloodshed, and battle, and his own sins, real and imagined.

He neglected his servants, his staff, his castle, his land, and himself—until his body was as overgrown as his forests and he was more snarling, growling beast than man, and the castle’s inhabitants became so unused to being acknowledged that they became nothing more than additional furniture inside the structure.

And there they stayed. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The war became a memory, as did the prince and all the rest. But people knew of the forest, dark and thorny and full of beasts, and of the dangerous monster that lurked in the abandoned ruin of a castle, and they stayed away.

Or, at least, most everyone did.


	2. The Beautiful Young Man

Here is what happened much, much later.

There was a man and his son. The man’s name was Ciaran, and his son, the absolute joy and jewel of his life, his only child and family, was a beautiful, bookish young man called Diarmuid.

The father made a living as a scholar and an inventor—though the town they lived in had little use for either profession, and so they were quite poor. This mattered not, for what the two lacked income they made up for in spades with love. Never was there as gentle and doting a father, nor was there as affectionate and loyal a son. And really, it can be argued that everything that happened henceforth was because of the love the two held for one another.

* * *

One day, Diarmuid went into town.

“Be well, my darling boy,” Ciaran said. He kissed Diarmuid’s curls as the young man left for the town market. “Stay safe.”

Diarmuid smiled. “Of course,” he replied.

He knew the path to town as well as the back of his hand. Diarmuid had walked along every part of the cobblestone road, every deep groove, every indentation made by years of travelers’ footsteps and the wheels of heavy carts laden with the crops of nearby farms and the goods of hopeful merchants. The townspeople were just as familiar. Diarmuid had grown up surrounded by the same faces. Some were kind, some were sneering, but all he knew by sight.

There was nowhere safer than the town. There was nowhere quite as routine and dull, either.

Everyone greeted him politely, some with more genuine smiles than others. He and his father kept mainly to themselves. Ciaran spent most of his time in his workshop or office, while Diarmuid tended to the garden and the housework in between long walks through the meadows and devouring yet another novel. They were a quiet family save for when Ciaran’s inventions backfired or, in one memorable instance, ran amok in the countryside.

Perhaps unsurprisingly they were considered a strange duo. Not that Diarmuid cared one iota, mind you. He loved his father, he loved his books, he loved daydreaming about adventure, far-off lands, and unbelievable sights. These dreams of his were considered quite ridiculous by the townspeople, who had their own expectations for a young man of Diarmuid’s age and economic situation. These expectations essentially boiled down to one word: marriage.

Diarmuid wasn’t opposed to the idea of it—many stories he read ended with a marriage. But those weddings were ones held after a thrilling yet tender romance and sealed with a passionate kiss and which promised a long, blissful future for the happy couple.

But there was no one in the town Diarmuid envisioned such a future with. Least of all with the man that people had been not so subtly pointing him towards: Raymond de Merville.

The hunter was a nuisance of the worst sort. The kind of person who thought his presence was a gift to those around him and that his tendency to overstep boundaries and intimidate others a kind of charm or skill. Whenever Diarmuid came to town Raymond stalked him like a deer in the woods, tailed him, tried to corner him against one of the market stalls for what he thought was riveting conversation and casual flirtation.

This day was no exception. Diarmuid walked into the bookstore with a basket of fresh fruits and vegetables and two loaves of hearty wheat bread hanging off of one arm and left the bookstore with a with a basket of fresh fruits and vegetables and two loaves of hearty wheat bread hanging off of one arm—and a new book held in his other hand. He drifted down the street, eyes glued to the pages. A highborn knight turned laybrother who stood steadfast and true to the young novice he’d fallen in love with, admiring him from a distance with a burning ardor…

“You’ve a smile on your face, _mon chéri_.” Raymond’s voice shattered Diarmuid’s focus. He glanced up into the hunter’s smug face. “Have you been thinking of me?”

Diarmuid smiled. “I promise you, Raymond, out of all the people in this village, you are the person I most think the least of.”

Either Raymond ignored his words or didn’t understand them because he said, “Ah, you flatter me. Let me carry your things for you? What have you got here?” He took the book from Diarmuid’s hand and slipped the basket from Diarmuid’s arm and inspected their contents. “All this reading will strain your eyes, you know. You ought to spend less time with your nose buried in a book and more time busying yourself with your household. Speaking of, what will you be making with all this?”

The nerve of the man. “Soup,” Diarmuid said through gritted teeth, “And bread. For supper.”

Raymond held the basket up, pretending to weigh it. “A rather light meal, I think. You could use a bit of meat on your bones, _mon chéri_ _._ Someone to provide for you.”

“My father provides for the both of us just fine.”

What an ugly sneer the hunter had. “Right. Our famous inventor. It is very sweet how you take care for him, Diarmuid—”

“We take care of each other.”

“But surely you have other things on your mind—a lovely young man such as yourself. Your gaze is set toward the future, isn’t it?”

There were those in the town who thought that Raymond de Merville was quite the catch. They saw that he was handsome and strong, and they thought these qualities also made him dashing and _good_. Diarmuid was the odd man out because the thought of spending the rest of his life with a brute like Raymond de Merville made him absolutely nauseous.

With his best polite smile Diarmuid said, “I _do_ have a great many things on my mind, Raymond. In fact, I just remembered that I have to be going now.” He snatched his book and basket out of the hunter’s hands and gave a little bow. “Good day to you.”

He could hear Raymond spluttering half-incredulous, half-outraged exclamations behind him as he made his way back home.

* * *

To Diarmuid’s great relief the house was still in order when he arrived. He found his father in his workshop, tinkering with his latest invention. It was a mess of gears and brass and bolts and, from the curses his father mumbled under his breath, was not yet in working order.

Diarmuid watched as Ciaran gave the machine a good thump with his fist and uttered a truly _blasphemous_ string of words. He gave a dramatic mock gasp and cried, “Father, wherever did you learn such language?”

Ciaran nearly overturned his workbench in surprise. He turned to Diarmuid with a slightly embarrassed look. “Forgive me, my dear, I didn’t hear you come in.” His fingertips brushed the side of the machine. “For the life of me I just can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong with this.”

Had his father always looked so tired and gray? Diarmuid kissed his weathered cheek. “You’ll get it working, I’m sure of it. But, um, what is it?”

“Right now?” Ciaran chuckled. “Just a rolling pile of metal. But thank you for your faith in me all the same. Now, how was your trip to town?”

Diarmuid proffered him the basket. Red onions, bright orange carrots, freshly picked green peas, a head of cabbage, the two loaves of bread—once he rooted through the cupboards for their supply of dried beans and bottles of spices Diarmuid would have everything he needed to make a nice soup. “I’ll make supper tonight.” Then he gave his father a wry smile and asked, “And—only one chance—guess who I ran into today?”

“The young de Merville sought you out again, did he?”

Diarmuid said, “What a _boor_ he is! As if all I have on my mind is who and when I’m going to marry.”

Ciaran glanced from the basket to him with an odd expression on his face. “Do you think about those sorts of things at all?”

He recalled Raymond’s words in the market and suppressed a shudder. “Father, I don’t need all that just yet. I’m not looking for a husband. I don’t think there’s anyone here who suits me. If I need to wait, I’ll wait.” He took his father’s hands in his. “Am I being too picky?”

“Not picky. _Cautious_. One can never be too careful about love. And you needn’t accept the first man who makes—erm, _overtures_. It’s your decision, and no one else’s.”

“Thank you,” Diarmuid murmured.

Ciaran pulled him into an embrace. “Don’t you worry, my dear. Any man that wants your hand in marriage has to get through me first.”

* * *

Perhaps Ciaran was tempting fate with such a statement. If he was the only obstacle standing in the way of an irritating potential suitor, then his son was obviously at the most risk of being accosted when Ciaran was not there.

Ciaran was very aware of that fact as he packed his bags.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, more to assuage his own worries than Diarmuid’s, “These patents—it’s just all paperwork and waiting—”

“Right. But first you have to get to the office. Two towns over.” Diarmuid grimaced. It wasn’t the longest trip in the world, but it’d leave his father without him for a few days. He was aware that Ciaran had been a responsible and capable adult long before Diarmuid began to take over the household chores—it’d been Ciaran who had raised him, after all—but even so he could not help but wonder, concerned, just what his father was going to do without him there to care for him?

The two fretted over one another for some time. Ciaran checked the pantry to make sure Diarmuid had enough to eat while he was gone. Diarmuid wrapped Ciaran’s scarf around his neck so it was snug but not uncomfortable. And so on and so forth until there was nothing more do be done to delay the inventor’s departure.

As Ciaran left he kissed Diarmuid’s curls. “Be well, my darling boy,” he said.

Diarmuid tried to smile. “Of course, Father.”

And he was.

Ciaran, however, was not.


	3. The Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciaran gets lost in the forest. Diarmuid deals with a threatening presence at home.

The route to Ciaran’s destination was long, the roads old and twisted. Unkempt in some places with tufts of grass growing from between the stones, and in others more dirt and muck than anything else. The signs pointing travelers from town to town were just as well kept as the road—which was to say, not at all. So it should not be surprising to learn that Ciaran lost his way.

He entered a forest. It was not your usual forest, with blossoming, bright green flora and colorful birds twittering about and rustling the treetops with their flight. There was no pleasant babbling brook, no soft, nearly silent steps of deer as they slowly milled about, watching passersby with curiosity.

This forest was dark, overgrown, and dangerous.

It was daytime still, and yet the canopy was so thick that no sun reached Ciaran’s face. His horse, Ginger—usually a calm, gentle creature—began to whinny in distress. Ciaran lit his lantern and held it aloft in one hand, soothing Ginger with kind words all the while.

“There now. That’s a little better, isn’t it? Slow and steady and we’ll be out of here in no time at all.” His thoughts were not on his inventions or his prospective patents, but on his son. “Back home.”

With the light he could see that they were surrounded by thorns, as sharp and numerous as a snake’s teeth, and vines, thick and heavy like the hardiest rope. The trees were ugly, gnarled things, their branches nearly naked, with roots bursting out of the ground like great, fat worms.

And—so it seemed to Ciaran—there was the sound of claws digging up the dirt, of snarling, of saliva dripping onto the dry earth.

Ginger’s senses were much keener. She heard the noise and, more importantly, smelled the scent of danger that carried from dark, matted fur.

_Wolves_.

The horse bolted. Ciaran held fast to her reins and to the lantern, trying to make out the scenery rushing past him as Ginger galloped through the forest in a panic. All he could do was hold the light aloft to lead her wherever the path took her, and pray that they would make it there in one piece.

And surely God was listening, because eventually the forest thinned and a castle came into view—dilapidated, ruined, but still so grand, and still very much occupied.

* * *

Of course, Diarmuid knew nothing of this. As Ginger sent his father careening through the forest he sat safe and warm in their home reading his book. It was, in his opinion, quite a good book and he was very taken with it so far. The laybrother and the novice had exchanged discrete glances and were meeting near the beach at sunset. They exchanged shy glances and allowed their fingers to brush together. The waves crashing to shore were not nearly as loud as the thunderous beating of their hearts…

Another thunderous noise startled him. Diarmuid jumped in his seat at a resounding knock on the door. It was a forceful, demanding kind of knock, like the person outside was exasperated at having to follow this basic form of social etiquette.

Who could it be? He had an inkling. With a sigh Diarmuid snapped the book shut. He walked—quietly, carefully—to the front door and peered out the peephole.

That Raymond de Merville stood there was no great surprise. But behind him, wearing a most put-upon expression, was Geraldus.

Geraldus had worked for Raymond’s father and, after the man’s death, had simply switched to keeping the accounts for the younger de Merville. Neither man liked each other much but both were aware that they relied on the other. Raymond kept Geraldus employed, and Geraldus kept Raymond’s expenses in order. That they were both now at his door had Diarmuid worried.

Sometimes there was nothing to do but be as polite as possible for as long as possible. He sighed, smoothed down his shirt, drew himself up to his full height (which was still less than tall), and opened the door.

“Good morning, Raymond. Geraldus.” Diarmuid plastered a welcoming smile on his face. “What brings you here today?”

As the two men brusquely shoved past him into his home Diarmuid’s smile did not so much fade as it did chip away into an expression of irritation. There was a good chance he wouldn’t be polite for very long.

Raymond and Geraldus could barely hide their unimpressed expressions as they looked around the house. Their eyes flitted from the twice-repaired cuckoo clock to the full bookshelf and well-worn armchair to the small bowl of potpourri filled with dried flowers and herbs sitting on the kitchen table. Their lips curled into very similar sneers. True, the house was not the grand or opulent, but it was neat and tidy and comfortable and more importantly it was _home_ , and Diarmuid did not care for the looks on his unwelcome guests’ faces.

“Was there something I could help the two of you with?” Diarmuid crossed his arms across his chest.

“I’m glad you asked. There is, in fact. It’s a matter of the heart,” Raymond said.

Diarmuid’s gaze went from Raymond’s leering, wolfish smile to Geraldus, who was sliding his finger along the table’s surface in order to inspect it for dust.

His patience waned. “Of course. Such a heartfelt matter that you brought along your accountant. Are you looking for something, Geraldus?”

Caught, the man turned around, hands clasped behind his back, and said, “No, I doubt I’d find much worthwhile here, anyway.”

Raymond said, “Well, it is a matter of the heart that overlaps with a matter of the purse, because, Diarmuid, _mon chéri_ , I hope to join out households. Marry me.”

Never before had Diarmuid ever been so flabbergasted. Raymond had long been hinting at his intentions but never would Diarmuid have thought that he’d be so brazen to ask outright—without Ciaran’s blessing and without Diarmuid even having accepted any sort of courtship beforehand.

He replied, stunned, “Marriage.”

“You’re shocked, I see.” Raymond laughed. “So shocked you don’t know what to say. How sweet you look when you’re speechless. Diarmuid, I would make you my husband. There’s no one in this town, nor even the next town over—dare I say, the entire province—who is as beautiful as you are. What a pair we’ll make! My little husband, keeping my house clean and tidy, dressed in only the finest clothes—” Here Raymond stopped and stared at Diarmuid as if he were imagining him without clothes at all. Geraldus, meanwhile, looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. “And I’ll bring you back the day’s hunt for you to dress. A stag, or a bear—no, a boar—”

“There’s quite enough boorishness here already,” Diarmuid muttered. To the hunter he said, firmly, “Raymond, I can’t marry you.”

The arrogant but genial air left the room. Cold tension replaced it. Something shifted in Raymond’s expression. Something dark and extremely cruel glinted in his eyes. He approached Diarmuid ever so slowly, his footsteps heavy on the worn wooden floor. Raymond was a tall, broadly built man who spent his days hunting and killing and Diarmuid was very aware of it now. “Oh? And why can’t you, _mon chéri?_ ”

“Because, I—” Because Diarmuid found him to be a terrible, appalling person. Arrogant and overbearing and _mean_. He would rather cut off his own hand than marry him. But in the face of Raymond’s simmering anger, it occurred to him that the hunter might have never been told ‘no’ before.

It frightened him to think of what would happen if he were the first to do so.

The words died on his lips. He floundered for an excuse. “Because my father isn’t here. This isn’t appropriate to discuss without him. In fact, it’s not appropriate for you two to even be here with me.” He swallowed hard and made for the door, pointedly not looking at Raymond or Geraldus. “Sorry, but I have to ask for you to leave.”

Geraldus scoffed but Raymond’s expression softened slightly. He gave Diarmuid that odd, wolfish smile. “Such propriety. Well, my little monk, I’ll wait for you father’s return.”

Diarmuid shut the door behind them without a goodbye and locked the door and only when he heard the sound of their voices disappear completely did he walk, trembling, back to his armchair.

The gall of that man! To just waltz into his home expecting Diarmuid to—to what? To accept the proposal of a man who harassed him in the markets. Who disrespected his father. Who just wanted him to _keep house_.

And then—The hunter had frightened him today, truly. The look in his eyes when Diarmuid had refused him. On one hand Diarmuid wished he had told Raymond the truth—that the thought of marriage were the furthest thing from Diarmuid’s mind at the moment, and even if it wasn’t that Raymond was the furthest thing from Diarmuid’s idea of a suitable husband. But on the other hand he shuddered to think of what might have occurred if both Raymond and Geraldus were angry with him, and he completely alone in the house with them.

His father wouldn’t stand for it. When he returned, Diarmuid would tell him what had happened and Ciaran would give Raymond what-for. Of course, he had to return from the patent office, first…

Diarmuid sighed. Well, his father was surely on his way home by now. The weather had been good, the skies blue and clear, and perhaps he’d gotten all his business done at the patent office, and perhaps he’d seen something very interesting or curious on the way there and back and would tell Diarmuid when he got home. And Diarmuid would have a nice meal waiting for him. Fresh bread and stew, and maybe he’d cut a few of the flowers from the garden to make a centerpiece.

The house would feel like a home again when his father returned.

He barely had time to sigh over the quiet, empty house and get back to his reading when he heard a wild commotion growing louder and louder and closer and closer to the house.

Hooves, clattering over the stones.

Diarmuid’s heart leapt. Father—and returning home so quickly at that. Did that mean his time at the patent office went well? Or that he’d returned home empty-handed? It mattered little to him. If they had one another then Diarmuid was happy.

He rushed out the door with every intention of smothering his travel-weary father home with affection, greeting him with a hug and a kiss and pestering him with questions about what he’d seen, who he’d spoken to, what news he had of the outside world.

But it wasn’t his father’s smiling face that he saw.

His father wasn’t there at all.

Ginger the horse galloped down the cobblestone road, eyes wild and rolling in a panic.

“ _Oh_ , _no_ ,” Diarmuid whispered. He stood stock still for a moment, chilled to the very core at the sight of the panicked, riderless old horse that was usually so gentle. Just one moment. The length of the sharp intake of his breath, the length of the beat of his heart.

And then he sprang into action.

“Ginger, you must calm down,” he said. Diarmuid stroked her side and murmured soft words to try and soothe the mare. Her muscles, at first tense under his palm, slowly relaxed. She turned her head and nuzzled him—looking for more comfort that Diarmuid readily gave.

What to do? The only thing he could do at the moment. Diarmuid brought Ginger a bucket of water to drink from, and a bag of oats, and continued to pet her while she drank and ate. What a wonderful, faithful creature she was, to come back home! Whatever had happened out there on the roads had to have been something terrible for her to return without Ciaran.

He cried, “Poor Ginger! What’s happened? Where’s my father?” The mare stared at him with large, dark, liquid eyes and nudged him back toward the road. “What—do you remember where he is? Can you take me to him?”

Perhaps it was silly to ask a horse such questions. But Ginger was an especially fine horse, and Diarmuid was desperate besides. A world without his father was unimaginable, abominable, and a world without his father was his current reality. It was a situation that had to be—and _would be_ —rectified. Diarmuid would see that it was.

He ran inside and grabbed only the essentials. A waterskin strapped that he strapped to his side. A cloak that he wrapped around his shoulders. Oats and an apple for Ginger in the saddlebag.

And then they were off. Diarmuid held Ginger’s reins as the mare carried him to, he hoped, wherever his father was.


	4. The Beast in the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid searches for his father in a ruined castle. And finds him, for a little while.

The forest that Ciaran found himself lost in and which Diarmuid was racing through has already been described, which is quite lucky because the young man was in no state to notice anything about it at all. The darkness, the thorny overgrowth, the ragged trees and even more ragged snarls of wolves picking up his scent—all was of absolutely no importance to him and might as well not even existed. He held onto Ginger’s reins and prayed as the mare galloped down a path, his heart pounding, his thoughts a muddled mess of panic.

Was his father hurt? How much time had passed between his becoming separated from Ginger and the mare rushing back to their house? Did he have food and water? What if he had fallen and been knocked unconscious? What if he couldn’t call out to Diarmuid if he saw him? What if they’d already passed right by him in their haste?

But as Diarmuid’s dread threatened to overwhelm him the forest shifted. There was a road, as dilapidated as everything else, but a road nonetheless, with a line of what might have once been shrubs on either side of it. When Diarmuid looked, he saw the ruins of a castle looming in the distance.  
Where were they? This wasn’t on any map that he knew. And yet by the state of the place it had to have been around for years and years and years—to have been built and then to _decay_ as it had. Once the whole strange, surrounding area must have been very lush and green and grand and beautiful. It was certainly in need of much maintenance, but Diarmuid saw that it could still provide shelter to a lost or injured man. His father had to be somewhere in the castle. Hope filled his chest, warming him.

Ginger led him to tall, rusted gates. As Diarmuid dismounted the mare whinnied in distress and nipped at his cloaks.

“Don’t be frightened, Ginger,” he said, “I’ll be right back with Father. Just wait for me.”

The gate was slightly ajar, and beyond it lay his father’s hat. Diarmuid flung the rusted entryway open and rushed to pick it up. Already well-worn and patched in places, the hat was sodden with mud and rain and ripped quite beyond repair from thorns and brambles.

Diarmuid clutched it to his chest. “Oh,” he murmured, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll buy him another one.” He stared at the castle entrance, eyes wide. It was still impressive even in its deteriorated state. Stone steps led to a massive wooden door. Some of the windows were merely wide, open archways, and some still had panes of glass. The towers seemed to be crumbling in places but still stood tall and proud and watchful over the area. The walls were crawling with ivy and dotted with fantastic, carved figures of dragons and gargoyles and hawks and stalwart knights.

Once it must have been quite the masterpiece.

Carrying his father’s hat in his hands like a shield Diarmuid slowly, carefully walked up the steps. They were chipped, and slippery with rain, and for all that the place seemed to be abandoned he got the odd feeling he was being watched and was waiting for an irate groundskeeper to pop out of nowhere and give him what for.

But Ciaran had to be somewhere in the castle and he might’ve been hurt or sick, and so, ever the dutiful son, Diarmuid put aside his fears and walked on.

The door was nearly twice as tall as he was and took all his strength to even get it to budge just enough to slip inside. It was dark, which was to be expected, but there was the scent of fire and wood smoke and ash in the air—the smell of burning torches, somewhere. As Diarmuid’s eyes adjusted he saw patterns in the disturbed dust on the floor.

Footprints.

There was no doubt they were his father’s—Diarmuid would recognize them anywhere. Ciaran’s boots were older than some of the children in the town. When he was younger Diarmuid would meander behind Ciaran, walking in the indentations in the dirt his father’s gait had made, stretching one leg in front of the other until Ciaran gently called for him to _stay by my side, please, dear, or you might get lost._

Well, now it was Ciaran who’d gotten all turned around and Diarmuid who would find _him_. He trailed hopefully after each footprint, squinting at the floor for his father’s steps. As he walked on he was sure that there had to be somebody else in the castle. Why else would the halls be filled with lit torches? Diarmuid wondered as he grabbed one from a sconce on the wall.

And yet it was still so empty inside. The scarce light sources did nothing to make the building less chilly, and the torches illuminated the faded paintings on the walls, the dusty tables, the vases filled with withered plants and flowers. Dried petals and leaves were strewn across the wood, crunching underfoot with every wary step.

He thought he heard—

Whispering?

Perhaps it was just the wind whistling outside, the sound strange coming through the arrrowslits in the castle’s stone walls. But still it seemed to Diarmuid that multiple people were whispering among themselves. Sometimes they seemed very close and sometimes they seemed very far away. And he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. But he never saw a single soul nor evidence of any other person save for his father’s footprints.

They led him down various passageways, up flights of staircases, and finally, to a hallway with what appeared to be a bedchamber at the very end. Diarmuid was surrounded on either side by portraits of women and men with broad features and dark hair and darker eyes. They were all dressed in finery, be it ornate robes or partial suits of armor. The heraldry—a bear? Diarmuid brought the torch as close as he dared to paintings. How detailed they were! Each person had the side of a bear—standing on its hind legs, front paws outstretched, maw open in a roar—either embroidered on their silks and velvets or stamped onto their shining chest plate.

The last portrait, however, was what really caught Diarmuid’s eye.

It’d been slashed almost to pieces. Between ripped bits of canvas Diarmuid could just make out untamed black hair, broad shoulders made larger by armor and cloak, a frown framed by a black beard, and dark brown eyes.

What lovely eyes. Not even the damage to the portrait could hide how soulful they were, how intelligent, how observant. From what Diarmuid could puzzle together the man was very handsome even with such a grim expression. What would he have looked like smiling? the young man wondered. And then, he thought, What was in this castle that tore at this painting? And how large was it, to be able to reach so high on the wall? And how big was it, to be able to rip the portrait to shreds with one swipe of its claws?

Surely he was soon to find out. With a gasp of shock and horror he saw that his father’s footsteps were joined by absolutely _massive_ paw prints.

To call them paw prints—what kind of animal was that size? By God, they were so oddly shaped, almost as large as a bear’s, and the beast appeared to be—

Walking on its hind legs?

Diarmuid’s eyes darted back to the portraits. The heraldry. Surely there wasn’t an actual _bear_ in the castle? But there was _something_ , and that _something_ had met his father because the footsteps and paw prints trailed side-by-side down the hall and then the footprints disappeared altogether but there wasn’t any blood, no sign of a struggle, but where was his father? With his heart in his throat Diarmuid rushed into the bedchamber, brandishing the torch as if it were a sword and as if he were a brave warrior and not just a young man desperately searching for his only family in the world.

The bedchamber was warm. Someone had lit a fire. It crackled merrily, bright and roaring. Someone had filled a small basin of fresh water and left it on a table. Someone had brought in a clean cloth and bandages and set them next to the basin. A lit candelabra stood beside it.

Someone had carefully tucked his father into the massive canopy bed where he lay breathing a little raggedly and cleaned the cuts on his face. The thorns, Diarmuid thought, biting his lip. One hand carefully holding the torch away from the bed’s curtains, Diarmuid leaned down to gently cup his father’s weathered cheek.

Battered by brambles and the elements, but—safe and sound, in deep sleep. His vision swam with tears of relief.

What would he ever do without his father? He loved him so.

The torch was swiftly placed back in a free sconce so that Diarmuid could wipe at his eyes. The strange, large paw prints and the odd, whispering sounds were swiftly forgotten in the midst of his pure elation at finding Ciaran.

Praise God! And praise whoever lived here, this saint who’d cared for his father in his time of need. Diarmuid would never be able to repay them for their kindness. They’d looked after him with such dedication—the fireplace, the water and bandages, the bed, the candelabra. They must’ve been observing Ciaran for some time.

Diarmuid picked up the candelabra. It was heavy in his hand, golden, intricately designed—the arms were vines and ended in a blossoming flower upon which the candles were placed. The candles themselves were odd. They were lit, the flames warm, but did not seem to be melting. Some sort of special beeswax, perhaps? Idly, he reached out to touch the middle candle to see if he could determine the material.

When his fingers came a hairsbreadth away from the candle the wax bubbled. Not at the top, where the wick and flame was, but in the front. It bubbled and burbled until it almost appeared to be something of a face—two eyes and a mouth. Diarmuid stared at it, fascinated, until the candle said, “Young man, please put me down.”

Which Diarmuid promptly did. He dropped it to the floor with a scream and scrambled backwards, falling over into the bed. He shielded his father with his body, chest heaving, staring wide-eyed at the candelabra, which was, by all appearances, picking itself off the floor and brushing itself off.

“Well,” it said, “Thank you. But a little more gently would have been preferred.”

“I’m sorry,” Diarmuid said to the candelabra, and then, feeling both hysterical and ridiculous, let out a strangled laugh. He became more hysterical in the next moment when the door burst open to reveal an axe—just an axe, no person holding it. It _hopped_ along the floor, and each metallic swish of the head through the air sounded something like speech.

It sounded very much like, “Cathal! What’s happened? Ah, another intruder! Two too many! I’ll take care of him!”

It was a very fine axe, with a lovely, carved handle and a sharp steel head, but Diarmuid was not in the right state of mind to notice that. He clutched the sheets, aware of his father stirring behind him as the candelabra and axe argued.

“Rua, _no_ ,” the candelabra scolded. “He was frightened. I think this is his father. Young man, is this gentleman your father?”

Diarmuid said, dazed, “Yes.”

“There, that’s his father. He probably came here looking for him.”

“All well and good,” responded the axe, “But now we’ve two people who know about this place and about us.” The axe turned to Diarmuid’s direction. “Can we keep him in the dungeon?”

Alarmed for more reasons than one, Diarmuid cried, “ _Dungeon?_ ”

It was at this point his father shook himself awake and mumbled, “Diarmuid?” He smiled. His words were slightly slurred. “My dear, what’s going on?”

“I only wish I knew!” Diarmuid said. He grabbed his father’s hands and kissed them, and then kissed his bearded cheek as well. “Father, Ginger arrived at home without you—I was so worried! She led me here, to you!”

“You went through the forest? Diarmuid, that was dangerous—” Ciaran attempted to sit up for a proper scolding, but it seemed that he was still too weak. He slumped back down against the pillows, eyes closed, one hand clutching his head. “Ah, my head is pounding. I’m sorry, my darling boy. I’m not upset.” And then, quietly, “Was that candelabra talking to that axe?”

“We have _names_ , you know,” said the outraged axe. Rua, Cathal the candelabra had called him.

Diarmuid kissed his forehead. “You’re hurt. It’s all right. We’ll go back to town, to the doctor—”

Rua said, “Look here, you infiltrator—you criminal! You’re not the one in charge—”

“No,” someone growled, “That would be me.”

It was the deepest voice Diarmuid had ever heard. Like the low rumbling of thunder echoing across a field of tall grass on a stormy evening. The owner of the voice ducked underneath the doorway and walked slowly into the firelight.

This was the creature that had made those paw prints. This was the beast that had torn the portrait. Of that Diarmuid was certain.

The beast stood on its hind legs like a man and wore clothes like one—trousers and a shirt and a cloak. But no man was that big, that _broad_. Its feet were bare and clawed, just like its hands. Most of its body was covered in dark, thick fur, and where there was not fur there were badly healed scars twisted over its skin. On its head, near its tufted ears, were horns like a ram’s. Its face quite bear-like, with a long muzzle and long, white fangs peeking out of its mouth.

But the eyes were so human. Soulful, and intelligent, and observant.

He didn’t know what kind of place he’d stumbled into. He didn’t know what to think. Diarmuid felt light-headed. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was calmer than he felt.

The beast stared at him. “I am the prince of the castle that you have broken into,” he rumbled.

“The door was open,” Diarmuid replied, very aware that his excuse would not hold up in the court of law and most likely would have even less of effect on the beastly owner of an enchanted castle. He added, indicating Ciaran, who was trying once more to rise, “This is my father.”

“Two intruders. Father and son. How alike you are.” The beast’s lips curled. It might have been a smile. “Your father was barely conscious when he stumbled into my home.”

Diarmuid asked, “Was it you who cared for him?”

The beast studied him for another long moment and then nodded. “Myself, and my servants.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” Diarmuid said. “My father is—he’s all I have. I love him more than anything. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’ll find some way to repay you, I promise. When we get back into town and the doctor sees to him, I swear to you that I’ll—”

A guttural snarl left the beast’s throat. Diarmuid flinched. “You’ll go nowhere. Both of you will stay here.”

“W-why?”

“I must protect my people.” He gestured with a massive arm toward Rua and Cathal. “No one can know of us. This place must remain hidden.”

“We won’t tell anyone, I swear it. I’m so grateful for what you’ve done, but my father needs more help than you can give. He’s weak, and confused.”

“I cannot risk the lives of the people here on just your word.”

Diarmuid’s lip quivered. Tears blurred his vision.

Cathal murmured, “My prince, perhaps, in light of the circumstances—”

“Please, he needs a doctor,” Diarmuid begged, “You spent all this time caring for him. It’d be a waste to for him to die now. Let him go. Who’ll believe him if he says anything? They’ll think he’s just delirious from being lost in the forest for days. I’ll stay here. Just let my father leave.”

“My dear,” Ciaran said, clutching his shirt-sleeve, “You mustn’t.”

But he had to. Diarmuid stared at the beast, waiting for him to make a decision.

“So be it.” The growl had barely left the beast’s throat before he crossed the room in two long strides. Diarmuid scrambled off the bed as his father was lifted into scarred, furred, muscled arms.

They were nearly out of the room when Diarmuid shouted, “Wait, I—Father!”

The beast stopped in his tracks. Diarmuid scurried to them, his fear of the beast no match for his love for Ciaran. He kissed him, perhaps for the last time, and said, “Be well. I love you.”

Ciaran was still very weak, his words still slow, but he had enough strength to reach out and brush a lock of hair behind Diarmuid’s ear. “Oh, Diarmuid—I don’t—I love you too, my dear.”

And then they were gone, beast and man, down the hall and the winding stairs and to the courtyard.

Diarmuid slid against the cold stone wall, stunned. The axe and the candelabra hopped in front of him and looked—if an axe and candelabra could wear such expressions—quite sheepish and sorrowful. “We’ve a carriage,” Cathal said with his mouth of bubbling wax, “He will be protected from the elements. It will take him to get help, don’t worry.”

“At least I got to say goodbye,” Diarmuid whispered. That was something. He had told his father that he loved him, and if that was the last thing they ever said to each other, then, well—

Tears ran down his cheeks.

There was not much comfort an axe and candelabra could give, but he had the feeling that Rua and Cathal were trying their best. They stayed with him as he sobbed, close to him but not close enough to burn him with flame or cut him with blade.

Eventually he heard the beast’s heavy steps grow louder and louder until once more the creature was right in front of him. Diarmuid gave a shuddering gasp and stared up with red-rimmed eyes at the claws, the fangs, the horns. Something in those dark eyes seemed to soften at the sight of him curled up on the ground and crying like a child. The beast held out a massive paw twice the size of Diarmuid’s hand.

Sniffling, he took it. The beast, careful of his claws and his strength, gently helped him to his feet.

“Diarmuid,” said the beast, the prince of the ruined castle and the overgrown forest, the lord and master of all the souls inside the stone walls, the creature who’d been his father’s caretaker and who’d now separated them forever, “I am David.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Diarmuid murmured.

David’s lips curled into a resigned, fanged half-smile. “I highly doubt that. I am truly sorry for what’s happened. But my home is yours, now.”

“Yes,” Diarmuid said, sadly, thinking of the little house on the edge of town where his father had raised him, of its tiny pantry and kitchen table and the bookshelf and comfortable arm chair, of the garden full of flowers and vegetables and herbs, of his father’s workshop and inventions with all their gears and mechanisms, of Ciaran, and Ciaran’s hugs and Ciaran’s kisses and Ciaran’s warm, reassuring voice, “This is my home, now.”


	5. A Night and a Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid gets a bit more used to his new surroundings, and the prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rearranging a few scenes and changing some relationship dynamics. :) I hope it's still Beauty and the Beast enough for everyone.

The whispering, as it turned out, had not been the wind after all. Rather, it was the sound of the other servants and staff inside the castle, talking quietly together as Diarmuid wandered about. The chandelier to the grandfather clock, the bronze statue to the embroidered cushion, the chest to the silver platter. All had been— _were_ people, cursed or enchanted into objects.

As Cathal and Rua led Diarmuid to his room the others watched the small procession, chattering to each other in excitement at this new arrival, their voices like the chiming of bells, the clatter of silverware, the rustle of fabric.

The bedroom was much larger than Diarmuid had expected it to be. It was easily twice the size of the kitchen in the little house that he and his father had shared. Dusty and musty, but furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers, a rug, and a nightstand. “Here we are,” Cathal said. “Forgive us, we had no time to prepare it for you.”

“That’s okay,” Diarmuid said. “You weren’t expecting me to stay for long.”

And then he fell onto the bed and wept.

It was a lady-in-waiting-turned-wardrobe who comforted Diarmuid as he cried.

“Poor dear,” she said. A smell drawer opened and shut and she spoke. “It will be okay, you’ll see. Prince David isn’t a cruel man. He’ll see to you. You’ll want for nothing.”

Diarmuid sobbed. “I want my _father_.”

“Oh, dear,” the lady-in-waiting murmured. She shuffled a little closer. “There, there.”

It must’ve been terrible to have had one’s body transformed, for flesh and bone and blood to turn into wood or metal or linen. It seemed doubly terrible to Diarmuid, because everyone he had met so far had been quite kind given the circumstances, and all seemed to want to reassure him, to comfort him, and that was difficult when one had no hands or arms. He pushed himself off his new bed and pressed his palm to her side.

He said, “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, Diarmuid. Tell me, what can we do to make you feel more welcome?”

“Nothing. That is, you don’t have to go out of the way for me,” Diarmuid replied. He wiped his eyes and sniffled.

She said, softly, “It’s been—I can’t even remember how long since we’ve had a guest here. It’s nice to see a fresh face around. If there’s anything we can do for you, please, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Something had been on his mind since Cathal first spoke with his candle wax face. “How did this happen? Your…situation?”

At first she was quiet for so long that Diarmuid thought he had offended her. An apology was already forming on his lips when she answered, “There was a war, some time ago. And our prince fought in it. He came back and he wasn’t—the same, anymore. All wars are terrible, but this one—Prince David returned a changed man.”

“The war turned him into a beast?”

“He thought it did. And the thought took root, I suspect. Festered and grew until it became the truth.”

“But, you, and Cathal, and Rua, and the rest—”

The lady-in-waiting shrugged—or, made a movement that was as close to shrugging as a wardrobe could do—and said, “We changed, too.”

“But, why?”

Rua, who had been silent ever since Prince David carried Ciaran to the carriage, spoke. “It was the isolation he felt, I think.” The axe blade glinted in the light from Cathal’s flames. “That for all of us here there was no person he could talk to about what he’d been through.”

“That isn’t fair, though. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, but neither did he. The prince blames himself for everything, but it wasn’t intentional. Sometimes—well, sometimes things like this just happen, I suppose. The prince protects us as best he can. He’s very sorry for it all.”

Diarmuid wiped his eyes. “I know he is. I know this isn’t what he wanted.” The young man thought of his father and blinked away another wave of tears. “But that doesn’t mean that makes it any better.”

It was difficult to tell what everyone was feeling when they had no facial expressions, but the three servants seemed to be regarding him thoughtfully.

“If there’s anything we can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask,” Cathal said. He bowed, the lit wick almost touching the floor.

They bid him goodnight.

* * *

In the morning he woke feeling slightly more calm and absolutely famished. The last time he’d eaten had been before Raymond and Geraldus had interrupted his reading. He rang the serving bell to call and ask for some breakfast.

No sooner had Diarmuid dressed did a small cart wheel itself into his room. Or perhaps it was driven, because the glass vase filled with fresh flowers plucked a pink blossom from it’s arrangement and handed it to him, then artfully put together a tray of food.

Not a bit nonplussed—where had all this even come from? Perhaps the kitchens were in better shape than the rest of the castle—Diarmuid had his very first breakfast in bed.

There was a stack of thin pancakes sprinkled with powdered sugar with a small container of raspberry jam set to the side, soft-boiled eggs with perfectly cut pieces of toast to dip into the runny yolk, four strips of not-too-crunchy bacon, a bunch of sweet red grapes, and a pot of tea, just for him.

It was delicious, and Diarmuid felt guilty for how much he enjoyed it. But what a large breakfast! A cup of tea and toast made from day-old bread had been the most common meal that he and his father shared in the morning. Sometimes there’d be leftover stew from the night before, and every once in a while Ciaran had saved enough money to buy a fresh orange from the market. He’d peel it in one, long strip—amazing, Diarmuid had always thought—and then they’d eat it together, segment by segment, delighted at the burst of citrus on their tongues and content with each other’s company.

Perhaps his father would have more to eat now that he didn’t have to worry about feeding Diarmuid as well. The inventor could have an entire orange all to himself if he wanted.

The thought made him both happy and sad.

He could not bear to be idle, left to imagine what his father was doing, or how he was doing. Diarmuid rang the serving bell once more when he was finished eating and asked if he might also have a broom and a bucket of soapy water and cloth.

His cleaning supplies were brought to him as quickly as his breakfast. Diarmuid got to work. He rolled up the rug and set it against the wall, then poured the contents of the bucket out onto the floor. Suds pooled between the stones. Scrubbing away the grime was hard work. Just what he needed to keep his mind off—well, everything about his situation. And when Diarmuid was done with that he pulled aside the curtains and dragged the rug to the balcony, alternately beating the dust from it with the broom and airing it out over the side. It was a thick, heavy thing. Pretty and soft and woven with a winding floral pattern that must’ve been very colorful, once. But it was a struggle to haul it to and fro. When he was certain he’d gotten most of the dust off of it Diarmuid did his best to drag it back to the center of his room.

“What are you _doing?_ ”

Startled by the growling voice, Diarmuid let out an “ _Eep!_ ” and dropped the rug. It hit the floor with a _thump_.

There in the doorway stood the beast—Prince David—with his clawed feet on freshly scrubbed stone floors and his eyes narrowed as he squinted in the sunlight. His nose twitched. Perhaps it wasn’t used to the smell of a clean, dust-free room. At Diarmuid’s shocked face David’s own expression went sheepish.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Cathal just told me—I wanted to see how you were.” It seemed to Diarmuid that he had some trouble speaking around his fangs. Part of the prince’s growl, he realized, was really just half-mumbled words that had turned fearsome somewhere along his canines. For as large and imposing as he was, David stood stiff and in obvious discomfort, like a schoolboy waiting to be reprimanded for some mistake.

Diarmuid said, “I was so focused on cleaning, I didn’t even hear you come in. You just startled me. It’s okay.”

But David only looked more distressed by his answer. He stepped forward, slow and cautious, frowning. “But you needn’t clean. You’re not part of the household.”

“Oh,” Diarmuid murmured, sadly, “Yes, I know. But even so, I must earn my keep.”

A veritable whine escaped David’s throat. “No, no. That’s not—forgive me,” he said again. “I’m not used to—what I mean to say is that it's not your job to clean, Diarmuid. You’re not one of my staff, or one of the servants, and neither are you my boarder, or my prisoner—though I know that circumstances might—might make it seem that way.” Here he gave that resigned, self-deprecating smile, lips curling around his fangs.

Unsure exactly how to respond, Diarmuid said, “But I must do _something_.”

“I would have you do whatever you wished. Whatever a young man such as yourself would enjoy. There are gardens. The kitchen is well-stocked. And.” David seemed to have reached the end of what he could imagine a young man such as Diarmuid would enjoy. “Embroidery? We have material for it. Or—you’ve very fine hands. Do you play an instrument? The flute? Piano?”

Diarmuid blushed at the comment and laughed at David’s awkward attempts to think up activities. “Oh, goodness! I was never much for embroidery. I get impatient. But I like to read. If you’ve some books I could borrow.”

David brightened considerably. “Yes, of course. Books. You may read whatever you’d like—here, I will take you to the library.”

The _library?_ Diarmuid took the prince’s offered arm. His fingers brushed against fur and scars. As they walked together he could feel David’s muscles flexing with each step. And the strength he had! David guided him around the castle, pointing out areas of disrepair for Diarmuid to avoid so as not to get cut or twist an ankle. But when they reached a particularly tricky staircase the prince idly swept Diarmuid into his arms and carried him to the top step in just a few long strides as if he weighed absolutely nothing.

It was only when David set him down and noticed Diarmuid’s reddened face did the prince seem to realize he’d made a faux pas. He clapped an enormous, clawed hand to his face and growled, “Forgive me! I should have asked your permission. I didn’t think—”

Gently, and still blushing, Diarmuid said, “It’s okay. I’m not upset. Don’t feel badly about it.” Then he added, “You’re always apologizing.”

“I have much to apologize for,” David said, flatly. “For all that I’ve done and all the misery I’ve caused. My people relied on me and I’ve turned them into monsters. I try to protect them from the outside world, how others would react—But you merely came here in search of your father and I separated the two of you. If it weren’t for me, there’d be nothing to hide from, and you could live with him still.”

This was all true but the degree of self-loathing in his words troubled Diarmuid. He patted David’s arm. “You didn’t mean for all this to happen. You’re doing your best in a very difficult situation. And you’re still taking care of everyone here. You saved my father. I’ll be forever grateful to you for that, David.”

That was God’s honest truth. He’d sent Ciaran away and kept Diarmuid in the castle, but it had not escaped Diarmuid’s notice that his father had been attended to in the prince’s own bedchambers. That it’d been David who had found a stranger somewhere on the castle grounds and had carefully warmed him, cleaned him, bandaged his hurts, watched over him as he slept, left Cathal at his bedside while he went to grab something to soothe him.

David’s eyes softened. For a moment Diarmuid saw the man he once was—not the beast, not the prince in the portrait, but David, tall and dark and unsure of himself and yet so certain of his faults. “Let us continue on to the library,” David finally said. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Diarmuid hooked their arms together once more. “I think I will.”


End file.
